


Vignettes

by Templeton (StAnni)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/Templeton
Summary: Arthur looks at Eames for a second too long and then takes a step towards Eames, tentatively and with what seems to be actual curiosity. “We’re boyfriends?”  He asks, or, he suggests, as if they are playing hot or cold.  Eames nods, now uncertain himself “Well yes…aren’t we?”





	Vignettes

*Initial Misgivings* 

Arthur looks at him with slight surprise and opens the door a bit further. “I thought you were working.” He says, and it is quiet cool water on a hot day to hear his voice, but it is also torment and Eames rubs his face as he goes inside. “Yeah, no, I’m not.”   
Arthur closes the door and, with his hands in his pockets, elegant and cool as always, waits for Eames to catch him up. Eames takes his coat off and drops it heavy on the dining room table – Arthur’s eyes, brown and soft, quietly follows Eames’ nervous movements. “Something wrong, Alex?”   
Eames stops, breathes and shakes his head at Arthur, diving in headfirst “I slept with Jake.” 

Arthur doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink or flinch. He listens to the words, blunt and rough, and simply watches Eames, as if utterly unaffected. Which, Eames realises with a very cold very nauseating shock, he may well be.

But then Arthur nods and shrugs, only slightly. “I know.” 

The world turns on its axis and Eames can feel the blood running the wrong way up in his body. He blinks and looks at Arthur, trying to calmly get a grip of the situation. “Pardon me?” 

Arthur, to his credit, can sense the hint of danger in the air, and rephrases, though barely. “What I mean to say is that…I know…that you and Jake are sleeping together.” 

Eames narrows his eyes at him, uncertain and, seriously, hurt “So, you don’t care?” Arthur is still thinking of an answer when Eames takes a step closer, “Have you been seeing anyone else?” Eames asks disgusted – and, admittedly, losing focus of the point of his visit, which was to be blind contrition, not blind-sided defensiveness. 

“No” Arthur answers quickly, firmly and sweetly. “But I wouldn’t expect you…” And Eames throws the table over, literally, throws it over – it crashes to the floor on top of his heavy coat and Arthur stares at it, eyebrows raised ever so little.   
“You’re mad.” He notes.  
And Eames nods, attempting to restrain himself from throwing Arthur across the room “Yes, Sherlock, I am.”   
Arthur looks at Eames with more sincere surprise than anything else “Why?” his bloody hands still in his bloody pockets.  
And Eames shakes his head, yanks his coat from the floor and pull/shove it on. “You are the worst, Arthur. You are the fucking worst, mate. Good night.” And he leaves.  
It does make him feel a smidgeon better to see Arthur’s eyes crinkle in disappointment at the word “worst” before he slams the door.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs when he turns himself around, when the wave of anger has crashed and washed him to a shore that is pure and simple regret and stupidity.

When he gets back to the door he doesn’t knock, but tries it and it opens – opens to Arthur quietly turning over the table Eames threw over.  
Arthur sighs and looks at him, his ever polite veneer now cracked. “Get out, please.”   
Now Eames does approach with trite contrition, eyes pleading “You’re not the worst, you’re the best. The only actually.” And Arthur rolls his eyes, shoving the fallen chairs back into place. “Just get out, Alex. Get out.” 

Eames doesn’t leave, but ambles over to the kitchen, still watching Arthur. “I thought you were going to break up with me about Jake.” Eames offers and Arthur gives a stale and humourless smirk “Break up with you?” He looks at Eames and Eames simply stares at him “Yes, I thought you were going to break up with me.” 

Arthur looks at Eames for a second too long and then takes a step towards Eames, tentatively and with what seems to be actual curiosity. “We’re boyfriends?” He asks, or, he suggests, as if they are playing hot or cold. Eames nods, now uncertain himself “Well yes…aren’t we?” 

At that Arthur grabs Eames by the collar and lands a punch on him, right in the left eye, snarling and incensed “You mean you thought we actually were exclusive and you’ve been sleeping with Jake?!”   
Eames laughs, relieved, through the throbbing pain at his temple.

*Uncoupling*

For all his polite posturing, Arthur is shockingly astute at subversion.

They break up for the first time, in spring, two years into their relationship. And when they do break up - Eames is fine.   
Arthur, has, in true Arthurian form, created a break-up aesthetic for Eames, that will allow Eames to not only exit a victor, but, in a sense, more whole than how he entered the relationship.

Arthur has not only gifted Eames with all of their friends - having cut ties with every single person, dog and cat that Eames may need as support but has also left the fridge stocked with vodka and iced tea. 

Arthur leaves a note, neatly folded, on Eames’ bed after the argument – explaining that the fault lies with him, not Eames, that he will never be able to find someone like Eames again and that should Eames ever, ever need him, he will always be there.

Eames is fine. 

Not because of Arthur’s note, or Arthur’s friends or even Arthur’s fridge full of good-bye cocktails.  
No.

Eames is fine because he has stolen a shit-load of money - enough for the best, very best, hitman (even better than Arthur) and has ordered a hit on his ex-boyfriend’s life. And after he receives the confirmation text message, he is going to take a long vacation – bake for hours in the sun, burn the Arthur out of his soul.

*Love you, darling*

Arthur bites at his lower lip before he sinks to his knees, dragging his fingers down Eames’ chest, over his belt and coarsely across Eames’ hard erection straining at his pants. Arthur breathes up to him, eyes shining like pebbles in the half-dark “You can come down my throat if I can come in your ass” 

Arthur is crude, foul-mouthed and absolutely irresistible - he slaps and bites and bruises. He groans loudly and grips the bed, and pushes back against Eames’ cock as Eames thrusts into him. He begs sweetly and rides Eames hungrily, his cock hard and pre-cum slicking down his shaft as he curses “Fuck, yeah, fuck, baby…” 

He wants to hear about Eames’ first, he wants to know the details – as he slicks himself up and strokes himself, spilling over Eames’ chin as Eames tells him how he moaned and spread himself for his high school best friend. 

In the dead of night, Arthur’s skin is dark olive in the moonlight and his lips, wet glistening with kisses, Eames makes him pull his knees up, makes him give himself to Eames missionary position, vulnerable and staring into Eames’ eyes as he breathes loudly, gasps with each push and pull. Eames makes him take it rough and deep, fucking out his breath, fucking out short whispers, prayers “more, more…” 

One afternoon Eames gets home to find Arthur waiting naked on the bed, a stranger sitting to the side – a woman, beautiful – he has never seen. 

Eames pulls Arthur up by the neck. “What the fuck is going on here?” He asks, but more in frank interest than bother. An hour later Eames is watching as the woman has a hand down her skirt, watching Arthur bend Eames over the side of the bed, pull down his slacks, spit in his fist and fuck Eames, intense and rough, over the side of the bed for her pleasure. She asks, in French, to touch Eames and Arthur heaves Eames up against him, his cock still thick and deep inside of Eames. Eames, breathless, listens as Arthur tells her that she can touch Eames, suck him off if she wants to which she goes to kneel in front of Eames and as he watches, Arthur’s arm across his chest, her soft mouth closes over the tip of his erection and he has to close his eyes not to come right there.

*Arthur is in Mombasa*

The second, and last, time that they get back together is after the Fischer job.  
Eames hears a knock on the door and when he opens Arthur is soaked through as he stands in front of Eames’ apartment, a pool already at his feet, upside down halo. “I know it can’t just go back to how it was before, Alex.” Arthur reasons “But I need another shot.”

Eames invites Arthur outside and finds him a towel as Arthur takes off his shirt, heavy with rain. He has not given Arthur an answer and he is acutely aware of the fact that it is the first time in more than two years that they are alone together and Arthur is not only shirtless but wet, and desperate and waiting for him to say yes.

Eames tries to remain collected – the simultaneous urges to punch Arthur square in the jaw and to kiss him, fighting it out in his heart. “Are you staying in a hotel?” Arthur shakes his head. “I’m just sort of am winging it here.” And at that Eames does make the election, but not to punch Arthur, to kiss him.

The kiss, three hours later, was a mistake. Arthur, on his stomach, his clothes on a wet pile on the floor – sleeping the sleep of the innocent – leaves Eames wide awake, pensive, mulling the years over in his mind. He still hasn’t given Arthur a yes or a no, though he supposes, Arthur may take their frenzied fuck as a yes.

He wakes Arthur by tapping the smooth olive skin of his shoulder. Arthur, groggy, looks up at him with a frown. “Why are you awake?”  
“You’re going to have to get a hotel, Arthur. I’m not ready to play house with you.” It comes out rushed and blunt but where they are is rushed and blunt. Arthur rubs his face and sighs “Yeah, no, I know.”

Arthur tiredly sits up and takes out the box of cigarettes from his jacket on the floor and before he lights, pertinently ignoring Eames’ look of irritation at the habit, he nods. “I mean, I didn’t…I’m not like, moving in.” He lights and drags and fuck if Arthur isn’t the most beautiful thing in the world in that moment. Eames has to look away to focus on what Arthur is saying.   
“I just want a start, Eames.”

*Ondaatje*

Ten months into their relationship Arthur lays splayed, lazily, on a Sunday morning, on Eames’ bed. Eames, reading the paper running his fingers up and down Arthur’s spine when Arthur mumbles   
“Read me something.”  
“What?”

Arthur looks up at Eames, who is focused on a particular article “Read me something from…the entertainment section.”  
“I don’t read the entertainment section.” Eames offers plainly, because it is the simple truth and Arthur shakes his head, making Eames smile, “Fundamentally, that is strange. You don’t like entertainment?”

Eames looks at Arthur finally “I have enough entertainment in my life. I can read you something from the sport…”

Arthur waves it off “Pass.” 

And Eames, now more interested in Arthur, delectable and awake, tries, with a smile “Ondaatje?” And at that, Arthur gives him a mock-warning look – do not mess with Ondaatje   
“You have your thing. I have my thing.” and turns his head away to lay on his folded arms again.

Eames gives Arthur’s bum a light slap to get his attention back. “I’ve read Ondaatje.” Arthur mumbles a sarcastic “Yeah?” head still turned, and ass now slightly raised – unbearably interested after the slap. 

Eames has to will himself to order, feeling his cock twinge. Instead, he runs a finger over the light red mark on the pale skin. 

Eames, takes his hand away and puts the paper to the side, knowing a conversation will follow after he says what he has to say “Yes, In the Skin of a Lion. My ex-wife had this thing for the English Patient.”

And Arthur curls up, looks at Eames, half-amused, half-betrayed “Wife?” 

Eames teases “See, if you listen to me from time to time, you’d find some things out about me.”

*Vice*

Eames father dies of a heart attack shortly after their fourth anniversary. The weeks blur into months and tea becomes vodka.  
Arthur wakes him up at four in the afternoon and he pulls himself up and ambles to the kitchen where Arthur hovers, eyes quiet and grave, as he watches Eames pour four fingers with ice. “Are you hungry?” Arthur asks eventually and Eames shakes his head. And then Arthur sighs, shorting every circuit in Eames’ brain when he observes “That’s the third bottle in a week.” 

Eames looks at Arthur, blankly, and there are no dimples, no shining eyes – just judgment and regret. “Pardon me?” Arthur meets him head-on, resolute “We have a meet tomorrow and you’re fried. It won’t be safe with you under with all that shit in your system.” 

To that Eames, feeling loose around the edges and grateful for the rage bubbling up inside of him – feeling grateful to feel anything other than self-pity and grief, smiles thinly at Arthur “Mind if I ask you something, love.”   
It is the way that he says it or perhaps that he uses the word “love” that makes Arthur shutter, raises his defences and he looks at Eames, waiting. But Eames pushes, just a little more “Well?” 

And Arthur, oh how he knows Eames, snaps a thin smile back, teeth bared “Fire away.”

Arthur kills Eames and Arthur revives him, mostly unwittingly, but today Arthur kills Eames, and the hooks and claws strewn across the floor of their relationship, that have grown sharp over the years and that they have learned to tread around - now look inviting and necessary.   
“”Fire away?”” Eames scoffs, rearing up and Arthur blinks, shaking his head slightly “You’re wasted, Alex.”   
And Eames says it calmly, so that it lands and destroys in the quiet of the moment “I fucking hate you. I hate you.”   
Arthur stares at him, seemingly un-phased, so Eames drives it home “That, is the truth.”  
A second passes and Arthur, lifting his hand from his folded arms to make a “and?” gesture, says “That’s not a question.” 

*Simplicity*

They are staring at a painting, a bad painting, in the lobby of the Finston Building across from the bar where they had their first date, years ago.

Eames glances at Arthur, unsure “This is what you wanted to show me? Is it by someone famous?” He tries to make out the name and Arthur shakes his head. “I like it.”  
Eames eyes the over-use of blue, the little ship on a Japanese (Eames thinks) sea. “Arthur, I can probably paint a reasonably good copy of this for you.” Eames offers “Maybe even be better.”  
Next to him Arthur chuckles and shakes his head “I just like it. It’s simple.”  
“That it is.” Eames agrees.

“Makes me think of childhood.” Arthur muses and Eames looks at him, intrigued “Your childhood?” And to that Arthur gives a short laugh, waving the idea off “Oh, fuck no. Not mine.”

Eames raises his shoulders “Alright… So do we just take it off the wall…to the till point?”   
Arthur smiles “I just wanted to show you.”

Eames nudges Arthur’s shoulder with his, smiling “May I show you something now?” 

*Off-kilter*

Cobb’s girlfriend, Ally, is the best thing that ever happened to Cobb. It is the best thing about Cobb now, really. And Eames smiles at her when she comes over, breathless from running around with the pre-teens at Philippa’s fourteenth birthday party. 

She winces as she takes a sip from the glass he offers her “Oh my…” and he smiles “Real lemonade.” She nods, handing the glass back.

She looks around and not seeing Arthur gently prods “Are the two of you alright?” Eames doesn’t look at her but nods “Yeah, we’re fine.”  
Ally nods but she doesn’t buy it. “Alright”, sweet girl.  
Eames pours another glass of lemonade and provides her the only explanation he can think of himself. “I came back a couple of days ago. I was away for a long time.” She replies, with a nod “Guess, it will settle then.”

He thinks twice about it but then decides to ask her nonetheless “Have you met Cassidy?” and to that, her quick look away and feign dismissiveness speaks volumes “Arthur’s friend, Cassidy?”

Friend.   
Eames waits. 

Ally takes her glass of lemonade back to take a sip – anything to keep her preoccupied he supposes “Yeah, he’s alright.”

It’s a hot day and it drags out. 

Eames doesn’t see much of Arthur and when he spots him under some trees at the edge of the park having a smoke, he pours a glass of lemonade and heads over.   
It is only when he is two thirds of the way there that he notices that Arthur is on the phone and then when Arthur spots Eames, he ends the conversation and tucking the phone away.

Doubt constricts around his heart, and although he wants to ask who Arthur was talking to, he doesn’t because he already knows the answer.  
He hands Arthur the glass to which Arthur smiles “Cheers.”

Eames takes out a cigarette of his own. “Hot as fuck out here.” He says, evenly and Arthur glances at him “It is, yeah.” 

Eames indicates to the flush of pink of the party “Ready to go, soon?” They have been there for four hours already, anyone could argue that they have outdone themselves at a fourteen-year old’s birthday picnic. 

Arthur shakes his head lightly and doesn’t look Eames in the eye, which is not that new these days   
“I think I might stay a bit longer. I have to talk to Cobb about a job. Might just sleep over.”   
Eames nods, uninvited. 

Arthur offers “I’ll drive you to the station” but Eames waves him off “I’ll uber.”

*Cassidy*

Eames wakes up and Arthur is sitting up next to him, smoking in the dark. “Hey” he croaks, not having heard Arthur wake up.

At first Arthur doesn’t move but the gets up, moves across the room and Eames watches, bleary eyed, and then sighs tiredly when Arthur fishes Eames’ cell phone from his jacket pocket, his other cell phone – the one he has been hiding, badly, from Arthur.

The victory feels bleak.

Arthur stares at him for a beat, finishes his cigarette and drops the keys to the flat, Arthur’s copy, on the bed. They chime dully in the silence. Eames, used to bouts of silent drama, rubs the back of his neck and leans back, waiting for the inevitable fight.  
But Arthur doesn’t say anything; he goes to sit on the edge of the bed and starts to pull on his shoes. Baited adequately, Eames rolls his eyes “Oh, you’re leaving, now, is that it? You’re done here?”

“Yep.” Arthur finally answers and stands up.

Eames, patience now dwindling fast, gets up from bed, and firmly positions himself between Arthur and the door. “So I fuck your Cassidy, and you get to be mad at me?”

Arthur doesn’t answer but moves to walk past Eames, and Eames pushes him, not hard but hard enough, back. “No.” 

“You admit you fucked him.” Arthur states, plainly, for affirmation.  
Eames nods coolly – against the racing of his heart.   
Arthur face crumples just for a moment, just a second, and Eames feels the cracks around their world splinter inwards. Arthur’s voice is tired, quiet “Why?” 

“Are you going to pretend you’re not sleeping with him?” Eames asks, his bravado failing at the expression on Arthur’s face – shaken. And Arthur drops his arms to his side, overcome 

“Alex…I’m not. I wouldn’t.” 

*Ambrose*  
The first job they ever do together is a simple extraction, Ambrose Lawrence, in Reykjavík.

Afterwards, at the bar for drinks, Eames, overhears the conversation between the architect and some young bloke named Arthur. “You can’t tell me that design wasn’t true art. Impervious. ” says the inebriated architect, nameless and already forgotten.

“Impervious?” Arthur asks with a lilt in his voice, possibly amused, possibly flirting. 

Eames downs his glass of whiskey and walks over “Nothing is impervious.” 

Arthur smiles at him, clearly amused, clearly flirting “I have to agree with you there, Mr Eames.”


End file.
